


Lead me to your door

by Fantony



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Friendship, Gen, John Watson's Blog, Loneliness, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Songfic, The Beatles - Freeform, The Long and Winding Road, YouTube, tribute video
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-03-10
Packaged: 2018-01-15 07:49:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1297090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantony/pseuds/Fantony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Congrats! Your video's now on YouTube!" John struggled with Movie Maker to create a video and post it on his blog as a tribute to Sherlock. It's been three years today and he doesn't know that somewhere, someone's still reading his blog...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lead me to your door

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic is inspired by the Beatles song 'The long and winding road' and by how I feel one year after my husband died after three weeks of intensive care that followed his 10th suicide attempt of 2012. This can be read as friendship or very very light slash (no kiss or anything) 
> 
> Please keep in mind that I'm French, hence the English mistakes ;)
> 
> Originally written on September.12 2013

* * *

The muffled sound of an alarm clock coming from upstairs wakes him up. It takes him a moment to remember where he is. Chair. Desk. Laptop. He glances at the time on the bottom right corner of the screen just to make sure his alarm clock isn't wrong. 6.30am. "Oh God..." He must have fallen asleep a couple of hours ago but it feels like minutes. He yawns and stretches in his chair, a few joints cracking. He looks back at the screen.

_Congrats! Your video's now on YouTube!_

"About time," he mumbles.

This is his first video and under other circumstances, he would have certainly been proud of himself. After all, it took him a whole evening and most of the night to figure out how Windows Movie Maker work, to choose the pictures, cut the videos... He clicks on the play button and Paul McCartney starts to sing.

_The long and winding road that leads to your door_

"To my best friend, Sherlock. 1976-2011", reads the title.

Pictures and clips succeed each other on screen. Pictures from newspapers. Clips from TV news. Pictures he took of Sherlock with his phone. He smiles as he remembers the detective's protestations whenever he took a picture of him. He wishes he had pictures of Sherlock as a kid, or as a teen. Relics of his life before they met each other. But he's never dared to ask Mycroft. There's just that old school year group photograph he has found between violin sheet music. He doesn't know why Sherlock had kept this one in particular while he didn't even have family portraits and couldn't see the point in taking pictures. He had stared at that picture for a long time. There is no date on it but it was certainly taken circa 1985 for Sherlock looks about eight or ten and it had been very easy to spot him. He is standing aside, already a head taller than the others, dark curls falling over his eyes. If only he had known Sherlock for longer...

_Why leave me standing here? Let me know the way..._ the song goes on as a fake smile Sherlock appears on screen. He's wearing the deerstalker hat Lestrade has just given him.

_Many times I've been alone, and many times I've cried_

This picture was taken in Dartmoor during the Baskerville case. The landscape was amazing and Sherlock looked so solemn on this rock that it was almost laughable.

_Anyway, you'll never know the many ways I've tried_

And this one was taken at Christmas 2010. This was before the guests arrived, which explains why Sherlock is still smiling. And this was also before he opened John's gift. The "Astronomy for Dummies" book. John can still hear Sherlock yelling at him and he can't help but smile.

_And still they lead me back to the long and winding road_

And this one is John's favourite picture of Sherlock. Sherlock was playing the violin and he was too concentrate on the music and on whatever he had going in his mind to notice John had photographed him. The last sun rays of the day coming through the curtains were playing beautifully on his face, giving his features warm shades of yellow and orange. Silent tears roll down John's face.

He copies the link to his video and inserts it into a new entry on his blog.

"Three years and I still believe in him and miss him more than ever," he types under the video.

Another glance at the time. 6.51am. "Dammit!"

He's gonna be late for work. Oh well... If he doesn't take a shower before leaving, he'll never fully wake up. He makes his way to the bathroom and gets rid of his pyjamas. He steps under the warm water and closes his eyes in relief as his muscles slowly relax.

Three years.

Three years today.

Three years today and he's still unable to get rid of those awful memories.

_That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note._

Those words have been echoing in his head since that terrible day and what had followed them keeps haunting him as well. The fall. The blood on the pavement. Sherlock's blood. No matter how hard he tries, he just can't forget those images.

"John, you have to remember the good times instead," Ella had told him.

He _does_ remember the good times. He _does_ remember that crazy chase after the cab which had been the beginning of everything, he remembers Sherlock's amazing deductions, their hysterical laughter in Buckingham Palace, that thing he did with his collar to look cool, the beautiful violin melodies filling the flat in the middle of the night... He even misses his We-both-know-what's-going-on face, or the human body parts in the fridge. Yes, he remembers all that, but whenever he tries to picture Sherlock, this isn't the all smiles Four-suicides-and-now-a-note-Ah-it's-Christmas Sherlock version that comes to his mind, but the Bathing-in-his-own-blood one.

He spends nearly half an hour in the shower, as if the water could wash these memories away.

7.43am. Baker Street tube station. His boss is definitely not gonna like this.

Why are these two guys laughing? How can anyone laugh on this day? How can they laugh while his heart is weeping and it hurts so much? He wants to tell them to shut up. He wants to tell them that it is not fair to be happy on that sad anniversary. Would they even remember the name of Sherlock Holmes? That genius who committed suicide because everyone thought he was a fake and who later had his name cleared by Scotland Yard? With the help of Mycroft of course. That's the least he could do after he had given Moriarty the ammunition to destroy Sherlock. He wants people to remember Sherlock. He wants to tell the whole world how amazing this man was. He wants everyone to remember that it's been three years today. He doesn't want Sherlock to be forgotten. Ever. But who does remember that date apart from himself? Mycroft, obviously. And 'Mummy'. Mrs Hudson. She remembers the death dates of so many actors and singers that it'd be a shame if she didn't remember that one. Molly. That poor girl has never quite gotten over. And Lestrade probably remembers the month, but not the exact day. The guys keep on laughing and he can't stand it anymore. He needs to focus on something else. He has to keep his mind busy with other things.

He looks at the woman in front of him. She is wearing a light brown leather jacket one size too small for her. There are a lot of small scratches at the top of her left pocket. She must often keep quite sharp objects there. Keys, most probably. Which would make her left-handed. Her fingernails are yellowed. A smoker then. His attention now focuses on her face. No make-up though there are definitely traces of black mascara near her eyes meaning she didn't remove her make-up yesterday evening but washed this morning, though the water hasn't been enough to-

"Take a picture. It'd last longer," the woman snaps at him, interrupting his thoughts.

"Sorry, I was just observing," he replies with a polite smile. She glares at him but he doesn't mind. Deep inside, he is slightly amused to realise that years later, Sherlock still has influence on him.

* * *

Coffee cup in hand, he opens his laptop and browses through his bookmarks. He clicks on "John's blog". He's been doing that first thing in the morning for three years now. He actually doesn't really know why he keeps doing that as John only updated his blog once over the past few years but somehow, visiting the blog, reading some old entries or a couple of comments they had exchanged there, the ghosts of a former life, makes him feel like he's still in touch with John.

Three years.

Three years today.

Three years he spent trying to forget him and failing miserably.

Will John think of him on this particular day? Or has he moved on? Forgotten him?

His heart stops but immediately warms up as he sees today's date at the top of the page and reads the few words that accompany it. He takes a deep breath and clicks on the play button of the video.

John hasn't forgotten him. John hasn't forgotten him. John hasn't –

"Wait, what is this picture?" The setting sun violin picture. He suddenly feels the urge to yell at John because he had no right to photograph without him knowing. But then again, if John was in front of him right now, he is not sure he would manage to yell at him.

_You left me standing here, a long long time ago. Don't leave me waiting here, lead me to your door..._

Tears run down his face. He quickly wipes them away. He absolutely hates crying. He hasn't cried since... Since that day on the roof of St Bart's. He had no problem controlling his emotions until John came into his life.

He had felt pride when John praised his deductions.

He had felt fear, terror even, when he had seen John in his parka full of explosives.

He had felt jealousy whenever John gave him the slip to go on a date.

He had felt joy when John had grinned at the sight of the ashtray he had stolen at Buckingham.

He had felt anger when he thought John was falling for Moriarty's trick.

He had felt profound sadness when he had seen John grieving at his supposed grave.

John has always been the exception to every rule and he is going to transgress another one. His fingers tap frantically on his keyboard. To hell with that damned plan. To hell with Mycroft. He stares at the screen during a couple of minutes, knowing that these few words will certainly change his life, and finally clicks on 'Post your comment'.

* * *

His mobile phone vibrates on his desk and he wakes up with a start. It takes him a moment to remember where he is. Chair. Desk. Datebook. Work. "Oh God..." How long has he slept? How many angry patients are there in the waiting room? Fuck.

He glances at his phone. Well, they certainly can wait a minute more. He grabs the mobile and opens his text messages.

_Hey sweetie, I know it must be hard for you today. No. I don't know. I can only imagine. Anyway, thinking of you xx Mary._

That girl is really nice. He doesn't even know why he has stopped replying to her mails and texts. She was with no doubt the best girlfriend he'd ever had. It's not her. It's him. He just can't explain. He'll text her back tonight he promises himself. He is about to drop his phone when he notices that little icon at the top of the screen. It's one of those alerts he receives on his phone when he gets a new mail on Gmail. And he has used Gmail only for his blog. Someone must have posted a new comment. It must be Molly. Or maybe Mrs Hudson.

_Anonymous posted a new comment on your blog. Click here to view the comment._

His heart rate speeds up. It is pleasant to know that he isn't the only one to think of Sherlock, but it's even better if that's someone he doesn't even know because it shows that people other than friends and family haven't forgotten Sherlock. He clicks on 'View the comment'.

_Alone is what I have. But you were right. It doesn't protect me. Friends do, but I don't have friends. Just got one._

He can't move. He can't breathe. This can't be... No, it's impossible... He saw him fall... No one can survive this... He saw his blood... He buried him, for fuck's sake! If it's a joke, it's a very bad one! But... No... Those words... No one but himself has heard them... And he never told anyone... How?...

His fingers type shakily on the keyboard and words appear under 'Post a reply'.

_Lead me to your door..._

* * *

 

**Thanks for reading!**


End file.
